


And the Rock Crumbled.

by hipbonesofChrist



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Melancholy, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Self-Harm, Tragedy, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 11:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipbonesofChrist/pseuds/hipbonesofChrist
Summary: Hugo Stiglitz is Isolde's rock. He never wavers, never weakens. But war has taken his toll on him. How long can he hide from his own bad dreams? How long before he reaches his breaking point?((TRIGGER WARNING: direct implications of rape and self-harm))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short little thing that's been sitting in my Google Drive. I decided to get it out there. Tell me what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to @CelticPixie !

**The Beginning**

~

The Basterds would have said anyone crazy enough to marry Hugo Stiglitz must have been just as insane as him. But Isolde von Speier was probably the sanest person they had ever met.

It had seemed like a romantic cliche to the American Basterds. To Hugo, it was just happenstance. After the standoff in the bar, he was patched up and sent to a safehouse on the Belgian border for more patching up. Isolde was his nurse. And the rest was history.

Aldo and the others never understood how someone as levelheaded as Isolde could fall for Hugo's particular brand of antisocialness. Raine was an old fashioned lover, not to mention a firm believer in one night stands. Even Donny, who was as queer as they came — and still making eyes at Smithson even after the war — couldn't figure it. There had been no formal wedding — although Hugo always carried a picture of Isolde in a wedding gown — and the times Hugo had even so much as held her hand in public were few and far between. Once, Donny speculated that maybe it was because he came from Nazi Germany, and she had escaped before the camps. But then, Smithson reasoned, why would he marry her at all? Aldo, Donny and Utivich spent much of their time debating the finer points of Hugo's relationship.

As for Isolde, it was easy to tell she was happy. She was a naturally happy person — yet another mystery as to why Hugo married her. He never so much as smirked. Every spark of passion and excitement in Isolde's crystal blue eyes seemed tempered by the measured dullness in his. Her hair was silken and beautiful gold. His was a dirty blonde. They seemed opposites in everything.  
She even preferred to speak English, while he spoke mainly German.

Did he even really love her? She seemed content enough, even beyond content, truly smitten with him. No one could tell whether he felt the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Downward Spiral**

~

Hugo sat on the window ledge, legs dangling from the second story of a small cottage in the country. It was dusk, and everything was tranquil. Even the birds were singing peacefully, and Hugo felt horribly out of place. What he truly wanted was to go back to Germany. No — back to war. It was the only place he'd felt like he really belonged. But despite all suspicions, Hugo loved Isolde. And the first thing he'd learned about her was her family had been killed in the Blitzkrieg — she hated war. Besides. The Allies had won. There was no more war to be fought. So here he sat.

"Hugo." He had heard her footsteps approach him, but her voice so close surprised him even so. He started, felt the tug on his shirt as she grabbed his shoulder.

"Careful!" She warned. Then, "I'm sorry."

He swung his legs back inside and stood, fairly towering over her. She looked up at him, raising her hand to caress his stubbled cheek. She didn't expect him to reciprocate, and he didn't. His hands stayed at his sides.

"What's on your mind?" She asked. It was a game they played. She would always ask; he would never answer.

"I need to shave." He said instead, feeling his face and putting his hand over hers briefly. Times like this were fleeting; but they were all the more special. He gave her hand the smallest of squeezes before continuing off to the bathroom. A moment later he swore.

Isolde knocked on the bathroom door, and then opened it without waiting for an answer. The straight razor was in the sink, Hugo's hands to his neck. His eyes were dark with anger.

"Let me see." Isolde prompted, taking his wrist and pulling his hand away. He was trembling; it had been happening more and more often, but through an unspoken understanding neither of them brought it up. Although the cut wasn't deep, it still stung. Blood leaked through the woman's pale fingers as she rummaged through the medicine chest with one hand, bringing out a bandage. Hugo winced, but it was in annoyance rather than pain. He stood rigid as Isolde covered the scratch, again letting her fingers linger on his skin. She wiped the blood away with a hand and sighed at the mess on his shirt and skin.

"I think you need a shower." She said, picking up the razor and standing before him. She finished shaving his cheek deftly, sitting on the edge of the sink and pulling him towards her. He leaned down to kiss her, and she tangled her hands in his hair as he pulled her close, her heart beating against his broad, scarred chest. She put a hand on his torso, breaking away from him.

"Wait." Isolde said. She turned on the shower, adjusting the knobs until steam rose from the tub. One thing they had in common; they both took showers hot as they could stand. Hugo stripped quickly and without ceremony, standing before Isolde naked and tense. Isolde took each piece of clothing off seductively, sensually. It reminded Hugo of unwrapping a gift, and it drove him nearly mad with longing. Her eyes watched the lust in his, the way his abdominal muscles tensed as his cock became hard. Finally nude, she stepped under the steaming spray, Hugo closing the gap between them in two strides. Under the water, Hugo's sharp edges began to soften, as if he was thawing. His body was tanned and pitted with scars, but he moved against her freely, hands in her dripping hair as he brought her mouth to his. His throbbing cock was between her legs and he thrust forwards, feeling his hardness slide over her soaked lips. She moaned impatiently, pulling herself closer to him in an attempt to alleviate the hot feeling building inside her. The sound alone was enough to have Hugo's sizable dick dripping with precum. His tongue slid over her lips, and then into her mouth as one of his hands traveled down her body, cupping her breast momentarily and circling her hard nipple with a finger. Hugo was Isolde's rock; strong, hard, unwavering, but in times like these, Hugo was proud to simply be Isolde's lover, and she his.

Hugo slid his hand slowly over her skin, raising goosebumps even in the steam. He squeezed her perfect round ass, and then finally brought his hand between her legs, index finger running between the folds of her womanhood. She gasped out something about loving him and bucked on his fingers, and he removed his hand before she could finish and licked what he could.

Isolde moaned and smiled as Hugo picked her up, sitting on the edge of the tub and easing her onto him. She was hot and slick, barely holding back even still. Hugo's blue eyes rolled back; he couldn't stop a groan of pleasure from escaping himself, and he thrust hard, hands at her hips to steady her. She wound her arms around him, one hand sliding to the small of his back and further. Isolde rested her hand on his tight, muscular ass.

Then, all at once, he remembered _it_ vividly. Sweat dripping down his brow and beading on his skin like the water did now. His hands tied tightly to a wooden post, splinters biting his wrists. Blood ran from the lashes across his back, and behind him, Nazi bootsteps approached. It was Major Hellstrom — Hugo could never forget his measured stride.

Hugo was no longer in that warm shower with his wife. He was back in the war. Hellstrom unzipped his pants, blind to Hugo's German curses. Hugo struggled so hard that his wrists bled. The scars were still there.

" _Nein! Nein_!" Hugo struggled as Hellstrom pushed him against the wooden post. His skin screamed, chafing against the splintered wood as Hellstrom bucked against him, panting like a dog in heat. Hugo screamed, trying to writhe away from his attacker. This was worse than any torture he had endured before. Hellstrom whispered cruel nothings in his ear as he violated Hugo. And that time was only the first.

Isolde's nails bit into Hugo's back, following the trail of his whip scars.

" _Lass mich allein_!" Hugo pushed her away, standing and scrambling from the shower. She stood up, naked and humiliated and still half in heat. Hugo was soft. He stood before the mirror, head bowed, breathing hard. His hands were balled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

"Hugo. What's wrong?" Isolde pulled his shirt on — it draped nearly to her knees — and stood behind him, unsure. It wasn't the first time something had set him off; it was the first time sex had.

"Don't touch me." He whispered. She reached up to stroke his hair; quick as a whip, he grabbed her wrist hard enough to hurt.

"I said no. _Nein_." He blinked hard, thinking, he'd said no to Hellstrom too. Unlike the Nazi commander, Isolde obeyed. She stepped back, silent.

"What is it?" She asked.

"Nothing." Hugo said. He pulled his pants on, looked around for his shirt before realizing that she wore it. He held his hand out.

"Give it back." Hugo said levelly.

" _Sehe ich gut aus_?" Isolde answered. She gave a small smile. His face stayed stone. Slowly, she walked towards him until she was flush with his hard chest. He was tense and trembling. His hands balled into fists at his sides, clenching and unclenching.

"Hugo...What did they do to you over there?" She asked softly. He turned away from her, closing his eyes as she slid her hands up his sides, painstakingly avoiding his many scars, to rub his shoulders gently. He turned to hug Isolde tightly. He wasn't just shaking, he was shuddering, chills running through his body as his heart raced.

"Hugo." She ran her hands through his blonde hair.

" _Halte...mich einfach_." He said, his voice quiet with a desperation Isolde had never heard before. He buried his face in her shoulder, seeming to go weak.

"I'm here. I'm right here." She whispered. Although it was just past sunset, she said, "Let's go to bed." He nodded, letting her pull him slowly to their mattress. The softness of it felt foreign to him; he usually slept on the threadbare couch, or on the floor, even. The downy blankets were too inviting, made him feel too vulnerable. Luckily, Isolde was there. Her arm was wrapped around his chest, holding him tightly as he tossed and turned and could not sleep. At length, he slid from the bed and ventured back to the windowsill, staring out at the black night.

How easy it would be to just...be done with the pain and the flashbacks and the scars, he thought. Finish everything.

 _Selbstmord_.

The only reason he hadn't already done it was Isolde. And he had fooled her into thinking he was such a strong, stoic man. She was his rock. The only thing keeping him together.

Quietly retrieving a fresh shirt from his room, Hugo shrugged it on and sat up against the wall, head lolling back, just like the old, Basterd days. He could almost imagine he felt his gun resting between his legs, knife shoved in his boot.

Hugo fell asleep, but was restless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Struggling**

~

After the events of that night, Hugo’s life had taken a downward spiral. Not even Isolde could seem to bring him out of it. He stopped seeing Smithson, Donny, even Aldo. In the fleeting moments when Isolde met them, she seemed exhausted. Like she'd lost some of that inner glow she had always seemed to possess.

Isolde set her groceries down in the kitchen, calling Hugo’s name. He didn't answer — he rarely did now. Didn't let her touch him, wouldn't sleep with her, barely acknowledged the existence of his wife at all. She felt drained, irritated. Stomping through the house, she finally came to the only closed door, the bathroom. Knocking with a clenched fist, she called again.

“ _Hugo_! Answer me.” The tone in her voice warned she would not be crossed. This tone, he obeyed.

“ _Was_!”

“Open the door!” Isolde answered. After silence, she repeated the request. Her voice was begging now. “I can't live like this!”

“Then leave!”

Dead air hung between them for a long beat. Hugo could hear Isolde’s short, gasping breaths barely holding back tears. He regretted saying it with every fiber of his being.

But if she was gone, he could be too.

Suddenly, Isolde pushed at the door with ferocity, turning the handle so hard that the brittle lock mechanism snapped. Hugo flinched as she barged in, pounding at his chest and weeping until he held her wrists, immobilizing her. She struggled in his arms.

“You can't do this to me!” She wept. “I can't go on like this! Please, just talk to me! Talk to me!”

Hugo’s intense blue eyes were filled with pain. His jaw worked, but he said nothing. Releasing Isolde, he turned away from her, letting her blows rain down on him unchecked.

“Why won’t you listen to —”

Isolde trailed off, drew a breath. In her attack, she had pulled Hugo’s shirt half open, revealing a square of white gauze taped to his chest. Hugo closed his eyes, looking away from her and Isolde took his shirt and pulled him to face her, spreading the fabric to reveal more white gauze, on his stomach, collarbone. Hugo didn't make a sound as she pulled his shirt off. There was gauze across both arms, his wrists and the soft flesh of his forearms.

“Hugo?” She sounded scared. Letting the fabric drop to the ground, she peeled the tape from his chest.

A fresh razor wound oozed blood.

“Mein Gott.” Isolde covered her mouth, pressing the gauze down hard again. Hugo inhaled hard, the only sign he was in pain.

“You did this to yourself.” She said. It wasn't a question; there was no need for a question.

“I’m fine.” He grunted. Isolde held his arm hard.

“How can you say that?” Her voice was a terrible, sympathetic whisper that wrenched Hugo’s stone heart. He didn't have a reply.

“Are any of them infected?” She asked at length, not looking into his face. He nodded, raising one hand to point at the other.

“These…and these.” His wrist and low on his stomach, almost at his groin. Both were deep, and a few days old. Both were red and swollen.

“Jesus.” Isolde took his wrist; he bit back a strangled groan, going pale. She brought him to the edge of the sink, retrieving a bottle of peroxide and uncapping it.

“This is going to hurt.” She said solemnly. She poured the liquid over the gash. Hugo bit his lip, nearly going to his knees with the pain. It started to bleed again, hard. Isolde swore and clapped her hand to the wound. She glanced at Hugo, annoyance in her eyes barely hiding fear.

“You need stitches.” She said. Hugo struggled to keep the emotion out of his voice.

“You’re a nurse.” He said pointedly. She took his other hand, replaced hers with it as she ran off. She returned with her triage kit from the war — it had been a gift from a grateful one-night stand. They were both silent as she cleaned the needle, held fast to Hugo’s wrist and slid the metal into his skin.

And suddenly, overwhelmed by it all, he was crying.

Hugo Stiglitz, Basterd terror of the German empire, was weeping, barely holding back louder sobs.

Isolde looked up, keeping her hands steady. “Shh, shh, just keep it together. Hold on. Hold on.” She whispered soothingly. Her hand was tight on his wrist, and she was deft with a needle. She finished quickly, and then wrapped a bandage around his arm while Hugo tried and failed to compose himself.

Isolde’s fingers slid up Hugo’s arm, until they were tangled in his short hair. He cried harder now, hugging her tightly. She tried to pull away, saying, “You’re still hurt,” but he couldn't make himself let go of her.

“Hugo…” she could feel his knees practically knocking together, and she sat him on the edge of the tub, holding his shoulders.

“Everything hurts!” He cried softly, shuddering as Isolde poured peroxide onto a cloth, pressing it onto his wound.

“Nonsense.” She said gently. “It’s just a little infection.”

“ _Nein — mein Kopf...mein Magen_ …” He swallowed thickly. “ _Ich fühle mich wie ich verrückt werde._ ” He whispered.

“You’re not, Hugo.” Isolde’s voice was level and frustratingly calm. He didn't like that he had to look up at her to speak.

“Yes I am! War is the only place I belong! I’m a murderer! _Ein Mörder_!” He tried to stand, pushing Isolde back, but his knees gave out and he fell hard to the ground, hands balled into fists.

Isolde stepped back, eyes sad but understanding. She lay a hand on the doorknob.

“Hugo. Calm down. I’ll be in our room. Just...when you’re calm...come to me. Okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Isolde left the room, shutting the broken door. She waited in their room, hands to her ears to shut out his screaming and sobbing.

 

* * *

 

At length, Hugo stepped unsteadily from the bathroom. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his jaw was set and he certainly seemed more in control of himself, even though he felt nauseous and fragile. The cut on his abdomen was cleaned and bandaged, and the only things running through his mind were how oddly relieved he felt, and how drained, as if his breakdown had released all of his pent-up emotions.

He also thought of how much he once dreamed of a soft bed and a woman that loved him. And how now, with the war over, he could have these things. He could be content.

So why hadn't he been relishing this profound freedom? The life of a veteran hero was hardly difficult.

It occurred to Hugo that somehow, he felt guilty. Undeserving of such praise. He hadn't completed his goal; he hadn't been at the cinema, he hadn't paid his dues…

“Isolde —” he choked out, wanting now more than ever to feel her warm hands soothing his tensed muscles, her soft voice saying that everything would be okay. He stumbled to their room, half expecting her to have packed all her things and gone, but she was there as promised, sitting on the bed. She stood when she saw him, and approached him quickly, eyes shining with relieved tears. She wound her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, so all he could see was her tangle of angelic blonde hair. He shut his eyes tightly, rambling.

“Isolde...I feel so guilty...I-I don't deserve to be a war hero, I...I don't deserve _you_ , God, I...You’re s-so much better than me...I killed people...I...I shouldn't have made it out alive, I should have _died_ , I don't deserve to be called a h-hero —” Out of breath and still crying, he inhaled deeply, choking and gagging, pushing her away as his stomach churned. Isolde rubbed his back, whispering calming words into his ear.

“Calm down. Hugo, don't think about that right now. Just take deep breaths. Slow.”

Gradually, Hugo felt the tears come to a stop. He gently placed a hand on Isolde’s head and ran his fingers through her long hair, cherishing the soft feel of it.

“ _Neurose_.” He said to her. It took her a moment to figure the translation.

“Shell shock?” She asked. He nodded, and she looked grave.

“I’m afraid so.” She said. Isolde had never actually said it to him before, for fear of how he would react.

“How long have you known?” He murmured. She thought he would be angry, but he just sounded tired and sad.

“Since I met you. In the hospital. I used to read about you in the newspaper. And then I took care of you...you had nightmares every night.”

Hugo faced her with his cornflower-blue eyes. He looked positively somber and, Isolde thought, gorgeous.

“Then why did you fall in love with me?”

“Why does anyone fall in love with anyone?” Isolde couldn't help but give a small laugh.

“Why stay with me, then?”

Smile fading quickly, Isolde answered, “Because I knew what I was in for, Hugo. And I _know_ that I love you so much — I could never leave you.”

“I’m sorry. For everything.” Hugo insisted. Isolde shushed him. Her eyes were concerned.

“Shhh. Come to the kitchen. I’ll make you some food.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said quickly. “I feel sick.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Hugo was silent, knowing that whatever answer he gave wouldn’t change Isolde’s mind. In fact, he hadn't eaten in days; Isolde usually made his food, but when they were fighting, they had stopped sitting down to dinner.

“That’s what I thought.” She said, looking chagrined. “It’s my fault, too.”

“No, Isolde —”

“A good wife cooks for her husband.” Her hopeful facade faded for just a moment, eyes flickering with sadness. Now it was his turn to brush her cheek lightly with his thumb.

“This is not your fault.” He said, his voice level. Isolde looked starstruck; she had never before seen this gentle side of him, save for in small gestures that barely lasted a moment.

“Come on.” She took his hand, pulling him towards the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

**The End**

~

The next night, Isolde tossed and turned as Hugo slept heavily, still exhausted from his outpouring of emotion and relishing the feeling of not starving for only the second time in weeks.

Then, suddenly, that deep sleep was over. Isolde jerked awake, screaming and crying. Turning on the bedside light, Hugo was dismayed to see a bottle of vodka on her nightstand — she always had bad dreams when she drank. She must have gone to bed later than he thought.

“Isolde!” As soon as her eyes focused on him, she was in his arms, crying into his chest. Still groggy, he instinctively wrapped his arms around her, stoic and still.

“Hugo...Oh, God, Hugo…” she murmured. “I love you s-so much…”

“Shhh, _Schotze_. What was it?”

“Just...don't ever hurt yourself again. Please. Promise me.” She said. There was a pregnant pause on Hugo’s part; he hadn't realized she was so disturbed by it.

He hadn't realized he had caused her so much pain.

“I promise.” He said lightly, kissing the top of her head and then leaning down to kiss her lips. He was never this...soft, Isolde thought. Maybe, it meant he was getting better.

Even rocks crumble over time.

  
 _ **Fin**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short end to our short tale! Hugo and Isolde may not be perfect or even understand each other sometimes, but they're getting better at it.
> 
> Did you like the story? Comment and critique!


End file.
